Withdrawal
by madame.alexandra
Summary: The realities of Rebecca's addiction come to light in a manner that unearths some of Gibbs' past, as well. Rebecca/Gibbs.
1. Blood

_a/n: so, this is something that's been rolling around vaguely in my head for a while, and i sat down and wrote it so maybe i can move on to other things. it's all angst, but that's my usual thing. it's also (i'll straight up admit) right along the lines of my usual favorite "tropes" to write (if you haven't noticed). _

* * *

**Blood**

* * *

He had gone to bed with Rebecca; that in itself was rare - a_voidance_ was the tactic he usually chose when something was wrong, and within their marriage, something had been wrong for months. He was trying, though – perhaps because he'd actually learned something from his first ex-wife, or maybe just because he had a sick need to make it look like she was the bad guy while he tried to make it work – because at least this time, it wasn't all him; Rebecca was hanging off a proverbial cliff, and he was tired of holding on to her.

He had gone to bed with her – but she'd been tossing and turning, asleep, it seemed, but restless; he couldn't bear wakefulness in a dark bedroom with her, so he'd left, retreated to the basement; it was morning when he dragged himself off the cold, reprimanding concrete floor and trudged upstairs, rubbing his jaw.

He sought coffee, something easy enough to find in his kitchen – he brewed it, and turned to the sink, eyeing the mess of dirty dishes ruefully. He felt out of place, when this domestic annoyance washed over him; he wasn't used to being the one who wanted things _cleaned_ – he wasn't used to telling his wife to get her shit together; it had always been the other way around.

He moved towards the sink, poking around – he was surprised dishes were even dirty; she usually ate off of paper plates, out of Styrofoam to-go boxes. The sink was mostly full of bowls – one empty wine bottle – and spoons. He picked up a coffee mug and smelled it – mint; maybe tea. Wary, he reached for two cut crystal tumblers – wedding gifts – and sniffed at both of them.

Both were sticky, filmy; one smelled like red wine, probably from the bottle – one like rum, which he expected; both seemed days old, dirty. He brushed his hand over the counter, and felt a thin powder; he lifted his hand and through he saw a glimpse of white; he wrote it off as dust. He grit his teeth and put them down, unsure if he was angry with himself, or with her. He wondered if he'd come home one day and find her dead.

He left his coffee to brew, and went to shower, shave, and find a fresh pair of clothes – all of which he could do quickly.

Rebecca was still asleep, curled under the covers like an animal, hunched into herself. He looked at her a moment, then went into the bathroom and shut the door. He showered without bothering to let the water get warm and got out, tying a towel around his waist. He opened the door to let the steam out while he shaved, and spared her a glance again – she hadn't even moved. He didn't necessarily want to wake her up, but he felt a twinge of something in his gut, and his head throbbed a little. He cleared his throat. He dropped something loudly on the sink.

Then, with a sigh, he said:

"Rebecca."

She shifted, rolled over, and pulled the covers off of her head. She blinked at him a moment, and made a pained noise, pulling a pillow towards her.

"You alive?" he provoked, sarcastic.

"Please stop talking to me," she growled – at least, that's what it sounded like.

He set his jaw and shrugged. He'd done his part. No one could accuse him of being oblivious – she was just being Rebecca; hung-over, and no doubt on the road to being late to work – again.

He went back to shaving, but it was as he was drawing the razor slightly over the last strip of foam that she stumbled past him – he nicked his chin roughly, and as he swore and reached over to catch the blood on his fingers, she started vomiting, her hand wrapped tightly around her stomach as she bent over the toilet.

"Christ," he muttered, throwing the razor down.

He rubbed at the blood on his chin and glanced at her. He watched her for a detached, listless moment, and then he reached out and half-heartedly pulled back her hair.

Rebecca groaned and straightened up, her eyes closed tightly. He slowly let go of her hair.

"You done?" he asked, unsympathetic.

She pushed him away, putting her hand to her forehead. She opened her eyes and looked balefully around the sink and, spying no cup, took a deep breath and dragged her feet back into the bedroom. Gibbs looked down at the blood smeared on the counter and then turned sharply; she wasn't usually that antagonistic when she was feeling the effects of her drinking – she usually whimpered and begged for sympathy.

He grabbed a towel and wiped at his face, following her.

"Rebecca," he said sharply.

She stretched out on her stomach on bed, burying her head in a pillow.

He stood over her, peering down.

"What's wrong with you?" he asked curtly.

She shook her head.

"I'm sick," she answered him vaguely.

She swallowed, and her cheeks managed to look flushed and pale at the same time.

"Go to work," she said. "My head hurts."

"How much have you had?" he demanded.

She groaned, her brow furrowing.

"I've been asleep, you asshole," she managed, raising her voice tiredly. "I'm _sick_. Haven't been drinking."

He gripped the towel in his hand tightly, doubtful. His teeth clenched and he bit back a smart retort. He thought about pushing her, putting his hand to her forehead to call her on her bullshit, but he didn't; after standing there a moment longer, he finished getting ready, his muscles tight with frustration, and he left her in the dark – if he was lucky, she'd sleep it off before he got home; if he was unlucky, she'd have started over.

* * *

It was after lunch before he thought about her again, and then only because his beeper went off with a number he didn't recognize and when he called back he got the advertising agency she'd started working at a few months ago. When they answered and asked whom he needed, he said someone had just called him from the number.

The voice suddenly changed.

"Oh," she paused. "Hold on."

He heard shuffling, and he leaned back in his chair, annoyance rising in his chest. He surveyed the bullpen, making sure his team was making themselves useful, and then snapped back to attention when she was back.

"Is this Rebecca's husband?" the woman asked softly. "Your name is Jethro, right?"

Gibbs cleared his throat. He was silent a moment, and then he grunted.

"Yeah, Rebecca's my wife."

The woman sighed, sounding relieved.

"Okay – I'm Lauren, I'm a friend of hers – do you know where she is?"

Gibbs paused. He rubbed his knuckles against his knee roughly, and grit his teeth.

"She's not there?" he asked abruptly – Rebecca started at nine, on the days she went on.

"No," Lauren said carefully. "And – ah, well," she paused. "She's been late frequently," she said finally. "I tried your home; no answer. I don't want to intrude, but I'm – I like her," Lauren admitted, "and I don't think our – boss – is going to put up with," Lauren broke off again. "I'm just wondering if you know where she is."

Gibbs grit his teeth harder, silent. He said nothing; he couldn't think of what to say.

"I'm not trying to pry," the woman spoke up sincerely. "I'm just trying to help."

He leaned forward, and sighed heavily, rubbing his jaw.

"She's sick," he said shortly.

He didn't want to start lying for Rebecca; he saw rock bottom ahead if he had to start covering for her and making excuses. He started to say something else, and then shook his head. He wasn't going to go any further than he had to.

"Doctor's note sick?" Lauren pressed hesitantly.

Gibbs smirked a little – Rebecca was getting sloppy at covering her tracks. He didn't answer, and the woman clicked her tongue.

"Okay," she said, mustering a brisk tone. "Okay – thank you, er, Jethro. I – she usually doesn't just completely skip work."

Lauren said a quick goodbye, and Gibbs was left holding a phone to his ear, listening to the ringtone. Her words echoed a little, and he felt a sharp twinge in his gut again – the woman had a fair point; Rebecca usually made half an effort, otherwise she wouldn't be so effective at hiding her addiction. He frowned, and let the phone dangle in his grip, staring at nothing in particularly. Had something happened that pushed her off the edge? He thought of the powder on his hands this morning, dried tumblers littering the sink.

"Boss?"

He looked up, dragged out of his reverie, his temple aching, like he'd missed something. He reached up and nudged at the razor cut on his jaw, glaring at one of his agents, waiting.

"We got a body?" the kid asked.

Gibbs looked at the phone, realized he was still hanging on. He hung it up violently, and got up, grabbing his coat. He grunted a vague order to the team, and snatched his keys and identification – and he left the office, at an unexpected and unprecedented two in the afternoon.

* * *

Gibbs got home to a quiet house – no soft music, which usually played when Rebecca was home alone amusing herself. He slammed the door, and tossed his keys and badge into a bowl on a table. To give her the benefit of the doubt, he checked the basement – maybe she was painting – and when she wasn't there, he went up the stairs and into the bedroom.

The lights were still off; she was lying on her stomach under the covers, her arm covering her face lightly. The only difference was, there was an half-empty glass of clear liquid on the table next to her. Angrily, he stormed over and picked it up, raising it to his nose – only to stop short in surprise: it was _water_. He held it back from his face and looked at it, then placed it back down, noticing there were two small pills next to the glass. He crouched down and picked one up – nothing sinister; just Tylenol.

He frowned, and some of his anger faded. He reached over and put his hand to Rebecca's forehead. She felt hot – she still had that same pale-flushed look to her; pale, because her skin was white and clammy, and flushed because patches of hot red were lighting up her cheeks and her neck.

He ran his hand down to her neck an then squeezed her shoulder.

"Rebecca," he said gruffly, shaking her lightly. "_Rebecca_."

She opened her eyes unhappily and took a shaky breath. She looked confused when she saw him, and moved her arm, clutching at the sheets.

"What time is it?" she asked. A look of panic crossed her face. "Have I been – asleep all day?"

He shook his head.

"It's three," he told her, and pulled his hand back, letting it rest on the bed. "You didn't call in sick to work," he said.

She blinked at him, her focus hazy. She shook her head.

"It hurts to get up," she mumbled. Her brow furrowed. "Why did you come back?"

"Some Lauren woman called me," he grunted. "She's worried about your job," he added testily.

Rebecca closed her eyes and moaned, gritting her teeth.

"Fuck them," she hissed, and waved him away.

Gibbs looked at her another moment, and with a distinct sense of dread, he realized that something was wrong with her, that he shouldn't have left this morning without trying to get more out of her. He lifted his hand again, and placed it on her arm.

"You take somethin'?" he asked finally, his eyes narrow.

She feebly tried to shake him off of her.

"I haven't – "

"'M not talkin' about drinkin', Rebecca," he barked, cutting her off. "Did you take something with somethin' else in it, somethin' you didn't know about?"

She shook her head, and squeezed her eyes shut, until her lashes pressed heavily against her skin.

"I haven't been drinking," she said hoarsely. She opened her eyes with accusation. "You haven't noticed?"

He stared at her, skeptical, and she swallowed.

"I've been feeling sick," she snapped. "I haven't drank in … a week," she said uncertainly, licking her dry lips.

He gave her a grim look. If she hadn't - really hadn't – been drinking at all, and she was admitting that it was an issue instead of nastily accusing him of being some sort of controlling maniac, then it was possible she'd tried to quit cold turkey – and this was the effect. He'd never seen withdrawal before, but he knew it sometimes needed a hospital.

He swallowed hard and gave her a serious look.

"You need more water?"

She shook her head.

"I can't even take the Tylenol," she whimpered, pushing back her hair. "Swallowing anything," she began, and shook her head tensely.

Gibbs nodded. He got up and went to the closet, trying to find something comfortable for her to put on. He knew she'd violently resist medical treatment, so he didn't mention outright that he was going to take her somewhere. He grabbed a soft t-shirt, and a pair of pants with comfortable, stretchy material and draped them over his arm, walking back to the bed.

He pulled back the sheets in an effort to get some Goosebumps on her skin, to motivate her to get dressed – and he dropped the clothes in his arm and leaned forward, one hand braced on the bed.

"Rebecca," he said sharply, a sharp pain throbbing in the back of his head. There was blood on the sheets, and it wasn't – it didn't seem – like a normal amount of blood for – a woman.

He threw the covers back gingerly, and turned towards her, his hand running over the large t-shirt she'd been sleeping in. He pulled it up, and rested his hand on her thigh.

"You're bleeding," he said, his voice edgy.

She turned sharply, pressing her knees together, and her row furrowed sharply. She looked terrified.

"It stopped," she said – she sounded half-confused, half-certain. She licked her lips and shook her head. "I wasn't this morning."

He stared at her, mesmerized by the look on her face – wondering what she'd done to herself – and then he straightened up and set his jaw, forcing himself to take action – the first decision he had to make was whether he was going to call an ambulance, or drive her himself.

* * *

_-thoughts? feedback appreciated. it's building on my other characterization of rebecca, with more seriousness, obviously. later in their marriage._

_-alexandra  
story #252_


	2. Water

_a/n: so, okay, obviously i wasn't being too vague with my hints. onwards! _

* * *

**Water**

* * *

He sat next to her in triage; that in itself wasn't the strange thing, he felt he had a right to be there – the strange thing was, she reached for his hand, and she held it tightly. She pressed it between her knees, her grip desperate. The nurse, a woman younger than both of them with stressed, dark circles under her eyes, took Rebecca's blood pressure and temperature while she asked her questions.

"One-oh-two," she said, a sympathetic frown touching her lips as she set aside the thermometer in a medical waste bucket. She looked back at her clipboard. She took a deep breath. "Severe abdominal cramping, vomiting, chills," she read off, pausing in case there was a correction coming – it had been like pulling teeth to get the symptoms out of Rebecca, "tremors, hemorrhaging – where are you bleeding?" the nurse asked.

Rebecca turned her head and stared at Gibbs, and he gave her a pointed look. He nudged her shoulder gently. Rebecca closed her eyes and turned her head towards the nurse.

"I'm having a period," she said grittily.

Gibbs watched the nurse. The nurse looked at Rebecca uncertainly, and then she turned and looked at him.

"You indicated there was a substantial amount of bleeding?" she asked.

He nodded curtly.

The nurse nodded, and she started to speak to Rebecca, but Gibbs cut her off.

"She's goin' through withdrawal," he said shortly.

Rebecca dug her nails into his hand and scowled, her cheeks flushing angrily. She lifted her head.

"I don't drink that much," she said testily – such a familiar mantra to an addict.

"But you drink, and you stopped recently?" the nurse asked diplomatically.

Rebecca didn't say anything.

The nurse nodded, and made a note. She looked at Rebecca.

"Have you had an accident recently – horseback riding, bicycle, overly vigorous sexual intercourse?"

Rebecca shook her head.

"Have you recently had an abortion?"

"No," Rebecca said. She chewed on her lip, and then tilted her head warily. "I had one when I was twenty," she revealed dully.

Gibbs looked at her sideways. He hadn't known that - but that had been ten years ago; it shouldn't –

"I don't think that would be relevant," the nurse said soothingly. She seemed to have taken note of Rebecca's age, and agreed with Gibbs.

The nurse looked matter-of-factly at Rebecca.

"Mrs. Gibbs, is there any chance you might be pregnant?" she asked astutely.

Gibbs leaned back, thinking of as nothing more than a run of the mill question for a moment – and then he sat forward again, his facial expression changing. He looked quickly at his wife, his stomach clenching. Rebecca stared at her knees, her eyes on his hand, and she nodded. The nurse made another mark, and stood up. She smiled gently at both of them, and turned to the computer to make some notes, and then she left the triage cubicle and disappeared.

Gibbs turned to Rebecca, drawing his hand out of her grasp. She made a quick motion, like she was trying to hold on to him, and then she lifted her hand and pushed it through her hair, and turning her face away. She winced, and wrapped her arms around herself.

"You're pregnant?" he demanded. He leaned forward, plucking at her arm, coaxing her to look at him. "Rebecca," he snapped.

She looked at him sharply, her eyes red.

"I don't know," she hissed, her voice cracking. "I didn't take a test."

He grit his teeth. He felt nauseous for a moment, and his head throbbed. He slid his hand over her knee and pulled on her, again trying to get her to turn towards him. She resisted and he tightened his grip.

"You're not supposed to bleed," he growled uncertainly – Shannon had an easy, uncomplicated pregnancy, he didn't know anything about problems, but he was fairly positive heavy bleeding wasn't involved. "You didn't tell me – "

She slapped his hands away from her.

"I can't tell you anything, Jay," she choked hoarsely.

He sat back, silenced. She shook her head, her hair hiding her face in thin sheets.

"I – by the time I started thinkin my period was too late, I started bleeding, and I thought," she shook her head.

She closed her eyes and reached for her head, pressing her palm against it.

"I don't feel good, Jay," she said quietly. "I really don't feel good."

He pressed his lips together and didn't say anything more. He reached out hesitantly, and then slid his arm around her shoulders. He sighed heavily as he pulled her against his side, and turned to look around sharply for the nurse.

"Mrs. Gibbs?"

She appeared out of thin air, another nurse behind her.

"We're going to take you back; there's a doctor ready to see you," the triage nurse said.

Gibbs got Rebecca to stand, sliding his arm around her waist and walking with her towards the two women. The new one took Rebecca's hand and gestured to her.

"You can go with her," the triage nurse told Gibbs – but he hung back a moment.

He looked at the young nurse for a moment, trying to figure out how to ask – what he was concerned about. He cleared his throat.

"If she's bleedin' – did she lose it?" he managed finally.

The little nurse gave him a small smile and patted his arm.

"Not always," she said. She hesitated, and licked her lips. "I think you should just go with her, okay, Mr. Gibbs?"

He nodded, and let her hand slide off of him as he followed through the doors, catching up to Rebecca and the other nurse. Rebecca looked around at him miserably, and he felt a stab of something sharp and unforgiving in his chest.

* * *

He was restless; in a small, immaculately clean room, there was a lot of waiting to be done, even though triage seemed to think Rebecca deserved to be seen immediately. There was a tech with an ultrasound wand, which Gibbs stared at as if it was personally haunting him – and then a obstetrician, finally. She was businesslike but warm; she touched Rebecca's forehead to monitor her fever, and then ran her hands over her abdomen, while Gibbs watched dully, his hands shoved into his pockets.

"I'm going to take a closer look, okay, sweetheart?" the doctor said matter-of-factly.

Rebecca turned her head away, and caught Gibbs' eye. He noticed the annoyance written on her face and smiled a little; pet names repulsed her, and this was a stranger. She didn't say anything, but Gibbs looked up, eyeing the other woman sharply. She slipped on a pair of gloves.

"I'm going to do another ultrasound," she said, "just to see what we're dealing with."

"She's already had one," Gibbs said abruptly, giving her a look.

There was a distinct lack of communication going on.

"This is a different kind of ultrasound," the obstetrician said delicately.

She began messing with something that looked like a slim wand, and Gibbs sat down edgily on the bed next to Rebecca, his eyes on the doctor, then on Rebecca's raised knees. He ran his eyes over the hospital gown, and then looked at his wife. She stared at him with liquid green eyes, her hair bunched up at the nape of her neck; tangled. She lifted her chin, as if trying as hard as possible to look away, and reached for his hand. He thought it was out of character of her, to be so clingy, but he let her have it.

Gibbs turned and looked at the doctor.

"Is she pregnant?" he asked finally.

The nurse hadn't said anything, he hadn't heard a heartbeat when they were looking for one, he couldn't read the imaging monitors worth a damn, and Rebecca didn't seem to want to know – if she cared. Rebecca pressed his hand against her ribs anxiously. The obstetrician was taking a seat on a stool near Rebecca's feet, and she looked up neutrally.

"There is a pregnancy," she said in a level tone. She paused. "The procedure I'm performing will determine how far along her miscarriage is."

Gibbs kept looking at the doctor, but he didn't say anything. He felt hollow, and some thin, flickering of anticipation. He turned his head back to Rebecca and she closed her eyes, biting down on her lower lip.

"Try to relax, Mrs. Gibbs," the doctor warned.

Gibbs watched his wife's face. It didn't change, but she grabbed his hand hard, her bones and nails crushing against his skin. He swallowed, keeping his back to the doctor. After a moment, he leaned forward.

"Rebecca," he said quietly, soft enough so the doctor wouldn't overhear.

She lifted her lashes some, looking at him warily through them. He hesitated, comfort stuck somewhere in the back of his throat, conflicting with anger and frustration. He ended up staying quiet, and just looking at her, waiting until it was over. When the obstetrician was snapping off her gloves into a neat trashcan, he finally looked around.

She briskly went to Rebecca's feet.

"You can lower your legs," she said, her face unreadable.

Rebecca did so, wincing, and sat up gingerly as the doctor adjusted the table. Gibbs moved to give her more room; she didn't let go of his hand. The doctor came to stand near Rebecca's shoulder, looking between them before she focused on her patient.

"Unfortunately, this pregnancy is no longer viable," she said gently. "My best guess is you started miscarrying earlier this week – you indicated you assumed appearance of blood was your period," the doctor paused, and Rebecca nodded, her cheeks flushed. The doctor shook her head. "In this case, what occurred is called an incomplete miscarriage. I'm estimating you at nine weeks. You have – "

"She's on birth control," Gibbs interrupted.

He was having a hard time taking it in – he didn't understand how she could not notice, or not tell him, or how he could be oblivious even earlier today, when he'd found her bleeding.

The doctor blinked. She looked at Rebecca.

"What kind of birth control do you use?" she asked.

"Pill," Rebecca said grudgingly. She didn't look at Gibbs when she continued, but he knew she was talking to him. "I'm bad about taking it."

The doctor gave Gibbs a pointed look, as if she was annoyed with him for being stupid, and for interrupting, and she went on – she explained options to proceed, surgical or medical, what the side-effects would be – and then she quietly suggested she give them a moment. She left, leaving them alone in a silent room.

Rebecca sat forward and clutched at her abdomen, her face paling; she still felt sick, she was still cramping, and now she was uncomfortable and sore from the examination, and her head was spinning from a simultaneous shock of information and unexpected loss. She tried to take a deep breath, and gasped, unable to draw it. She gasped again, and closed her eyes tightly until she saw spots.

"I want the pill," she said hoarsely, her voice breaking. "I want the misoprostol."

Gibbs shifted closer, trying to tilt her head up.

"She said it might not work," he said warily. "The other way makes sure you won't need to come back –

Rebecca shook her head rapidly.

"I want to go home," she interrupted desperately. "I don't want to be here. I want to go home."

He fell silent, taking his hand off of her. He vaguely understood that she din't want anything else scraping around inside of her. He wasn't going to make her do anything, but the thought of her sitting around at home – resting, waiting, taking something to speed up nature – scared the hell out of him.

She looked up quickly, her lashes heavy and wet.

"Do you think it will be alive if I stay here? If I don't take the pill?" she demanded huskily, her voice rising in pitch.

He shook his head slowly, his shoulders heavy.

She swallowed.

"I hate hospitals. They're suffocating and intimidating and – I just want this to be over," she licked her lips, pleading with him. "Sign the papers. Take me home. You don't have to," she took a shaky breath, "don't feel bad for me or take off work. I just want to go home."

She closed her eyes, nodding to herself. She tightened her arms around her middle. He stared at her, trying to discern what emotion she was dealing with – was she upset, was she angry, scared – he couldn't tell. For the life of him, he couldn't tell if she cared. He got up and then, as an afterthought, leaned over and kissed the top of her head gently, lingering a moment. He smoothed her hair back tenderly and quietly went to look for the doctor.

He ran into her in the hallway, and told her Rebecca wanted the pill. As the obstetrician started into the room, Gibbs halted her.

"You did blood work?" he asked.

She nodded.

"On your wife? Yes," she said. "This isn't life threatening, Mr. Gibbs. She'll recover."

Gibbs hastily nodded.

"Was there anything in her system?"

The doctor looked at him guardedly.

"Meaning?"

"Alcohol," he said gruffly. He grit his teeth. "Drugs."

The obstetrician sighed.

"I can't tell you any of that," she said shortly. "That's personal – "

"She's my wife!"

"Yes," agreed the doctor. "But that does not mean you own her privacy."

She said nothing more, but turned sharply and went into the hospital room to talk to Rebecca. Gibbs paced down the hall a few steps, anger coursing through his veins. He stopped and leaned against the wall, his head throbbing, and in a flash, in a split second memory, he was leaning against a wall in his ACUs, waiting for someone to come out and tell him if Shannon, thousands of miles away, had a healthy baby yet.

He shook off the memory, and stood up, forcing himself to think about Rebecca – he wanted to throttle her, but he wanted to be sensitive. He took a quick breath, and steeled himself, and went back in to hear the instructions.

* * *

It was late when he finally got her home. She'd already taken the drug, and she was running a low-grade fever. She said she still felt sick, but she also didn't go out of her way to say much at all.

He turned off the car, and turned to her in the dark driveway.

"You want me to run you a bath?" he asked gruffly. "Hot water might help."

She shook her head. He started to get out of the car, thinking she wasn't going to say anything. She said, in a small voice:

"I think it would be unsanitary."

He tried not to shudder at the thought, and slammed his car door, coming around to get hers for her. She was used to doing it herself, so all he was there for was to shut it, and she walked ahead of him into the house, only to stop – he had the key. He let them in, and she headed straight upstairs.

He stood in the hall for a moment, staring at the living room – the cold fireplace, the old rug, the curtains – and for another moment, in a startlingly quick memory, he remembered standing here the first time he'd come home to meet Kelly; he remembered Shannon getting up from the couch and coming over, placing an eight month old baby in his arms with a proud smile.

He shook it off violently, and swallowed hard.

He turned and went up the stairs after Rebecca.

She had turned on the shower and was stripping down – she stood in the living room in dark green panties and a slouching, see-through tank top. She was fixated on the bed, and he realized she was staring at the sheets, and he cleared his throats.

"Get in the shower, Becca," he instructed under his breath.

He approached her, and gestured.

"I'll take care of these."

She looked at him, and backed away. She sat heavily on the edge of the bedside table, and she stared at him like a wounded deer – and that look nettled him, got under his skin.

"Quit lookin' at me like I'm gonna bite your head off," he lashed out.

He grit his teeth, a muscle in his jaw jumping painfully.

"'M not mad at you, Becca," he said, unconvincing.

She seemed to blink away, and she met his eyes heavily.

"Yes, you are."

A mechanical reply leapt to his lips, but he didn't say it; maybe because he did think it was her fault, and maybe because he sensed she was glad this had happened, and he had never been so angry that a woman could be so callous.

She licked her lips.

"I can't tell why you're angry," she said hoarsely. "But you are. I can see it in your eyes." She fell silent for a moment, and then lifted her chin. "Jay," she began.

But he was afraid if she said something – if she resorted to her addict tactics, and she tried to blame him, or she tried to claim innocence – he was afraid he'd lose his temper, afraid he'd throw her against the wall or break her wrists in his hands, and he shook his head curtly at her, silencing her.

He took the sheets off the bed, folding them up into each other, and held them stiffly in his hands – he was always the one to do the laundry, but these sheets he was going to burn.

* * *

_feedback appreciated!_

_i'm kind of even doing a different take on Gibbs here, one whose still not quite attuned to blocking everything out. and trying not to make the same mistakes he made with Diane, except obviously he doesn't understand that those mistakes stemmed from refusing to let go of his old life._

_-alexandra_


	3. Fire

_a/n: gibbs just can't win._

* * *

**Fire**

* * *

He took a sick day from the Navy Yard; that in itself was unprecedented – his senior agent seemed not to understand what Gibbs was saying when he said he wasn't coming in – but it was what he needed to do; no matter how difficult his marriage was, he couldn't live with himself if he left Rebecca alone. She had tossed and turned again all night – sick with the effects of the pill she'd been given – and he'd retreated to the basement near morning, afraid his presence was heightening her stress.

She hadn't spoken – not really, nothing beyond small requests for water, or for the heat to be turned up. He went upstairs around seven to see if she was up, ask if she wanted breakfast. She was sitting on the couch, her hands curled around a mug. He stood in the doorway of the kitchen staring at her, his eyes fixed first on her pale face, and then on the mug. The smell of coffee in the air was absent, and suddenly, struck with a flicker of rage, he stormed forward and took the mug from her, raising it to his nose.

"Jay," she snapped, startled, her eyes widening. "What the – " she leapt up, snatching the mug from him just as he inhaled – she knocked it out of his hands and spilled it all over them both. "—What the fuck are you doing?" she demanded.

He stepped back as the ceramic mug hit the floor at his feet, bouncing innocuously against his shoe. It was water dripping down his shirt and splashing her neck and chest – water, nothing more sinister; just water. He felt sheepish, but defiant; how was he to know she wasn't right back to her usual pattern?

She looked at him fiercely, her hands shaking, and then she lunged down to pick up the mug and take it into the kitchen. He heard it break – she must have thrown it, and when he turned, she was leaning in the doorway – they'd almost switched positions – except she seemed to be huddling in on herself.

"The smell of alcohol is making me sick right now," she hissed at him nastily. "You think – "

"Yeah, I think," he interrupted bluntly.

She licked her lips.

"Don't get me wrong, Jay, I need a drink," she spat at him. "But I can't bring myself to – not right now – "

"No one _needs_ drinks," he said stiffly. "You _want_ a drink. You just can't control it."

"That seems like the definition of a need," she hissed sarcastically, coming forward.

She tucked her hair behind her ears, hiding her face with her hands for a moment, and then she sat down heavily on the couch, and rubbed her arms.

"It's freezing in here," she mumbled tiredly.

He stiffly turned to light a fire for her, pushing around the wood to make sure it was in optimal position. He felt Rebecca staring at him, and he crouched a moment, letting the warmth of the flames dry off his shirt. The more he stared at the fire, the more he seemed to feel it – not on his skin, but in his chest, burning, flickering, hurting.

He turned and looked at her.

"You can't bring yourself to drink now?" he said curtly. "What about last week? Two weeks ago?" he asked.

She held out her hand, flat, upturned.

"It's been making me sick!" she repeated. She compressed her lips, and her light eyes flashed darkly. "You made your goddamn point, Jay, I had symptoms of withdrawal – but I've told you a thousand times, I don't _have_ to drink – "

"You had a miscarriage, Rebecca," he interrupted in a terrible, cold voice.

Her mouth snapped shut and she leaned back, as if pushed away by his voice. He watched the expression on her face flash from fear to confusion to guilt, and he turned, standing up. He walked towards her, and stopped, folding his arms. She pushed her long hair back again, and looked down at her knees, her knuckles white. His muscles softened a little; he felt a surge of human compassion. People reacted differently to loss – he shouldn't assume he knew what she was feeling.

"You okay?" he asked, after a long silence. His voice was more level, filled with less animosity.

She kept staring at her knees, and then she looked up sharply.

"What do you want me to say?" she asked curtly. She lifted her shoulders heavily. "How do you want me to answer that?"

He blinked at her, at a loss for words.

"I'm askin' you, Rebecca."

Her lips curled up poisonously.

"Yes," she agreed, "and how can I answer to make you feel better?"

"This isn't about me."

"What the _fuck_ are you talking about?" she lashed out, standing up quickly and swaying on her feet a little. "You think I spontaneously got pregnant? You think that unless there's a physically present baby, you had nothing to do with it?"

He saw the red rising in her cheeks, the steam in her eyes, and he backed off, composing his temper.

"You weren't takin' your pill," he growled at her.

"You knew that!" she retorted aggressively. "You live with me. You're a federal agent. Don't stand there and act like you don't watch me every second, monitor me, _know_ me. You laugh at me because I can't remember to get a frozen dinner out of the microwave, but if I forget my pill, you'll still fuck me!" she accused.

He took a step back, and she sat down hard, leaning forward. She wrapped her arms around herself, and then quickly yanked them away and lifted them to her face. She stared at her palms, and shook her head, biting her lip.

"You got me pregnant, Jay," she said in a low voice. "You can't lord yourself over me like I'm the only one who made a mistake – "

"I didn't do it on purpose, Rebecca – "

"You think _I_ did?" she shouted, looking up at him. "You think I _wanted_ to have a baby?"

He didn't answer, but a dark look crossed his face. It was a reaction to the disdain in her voice – was it the idea of a child in general, or his child? – and the rough, careless insinuation that she didn't care, that she was relieved.

He shook his head tightly.

"No," he said dangerously. "You didn't give a damn."

She looked satisfied for a moment, and then the reality of his statement seemed to smack into her and she looked up, eyes wide. Her lips parted, and she stood up again, stepping closer to him. She put her hand on his shoulders.

"I did _not_ do this on purpose, either!" she burst out, shoving him. She flung her hands out, towards the kitchen, towards the sofa. "I wasn't drinking – you aren't listening – you didn't notice?" she demanded. "Why do you think I was having withdrawal, Jay?" she yelled. "It clicked that I might be pregnant, and I quit," she broke off, breathless.

She reached up to touch her forehead, a panicky look in her eyes.

"I didn't know what I was going to do – when I started bleeding, I just – I just told myself I'd been wrong, I was glad I wouldn't have to tell you about it – "

"Why the hell would you think I wouldn't want to know?" he spoke over her, his eyes darkening.

"You don't want to know anything about me, that's the whole point!" she fired back. "You didn't _used_ to! You started all this – prying, hovering, asking about my habits – we used to leave each other alone."

"I didn't know how bad you were," he growled.

She liked her lips, swallowing hard. She put her hands on her hips and laughed in a dry, careless way, shrugging her shoulders.

"Aren't you relieved?" she demanded. "Aren't you _relieved_?"

"Relieved?" he repeated.

"_Relieved_!" she howled. "You don't have to worry about me with a goddamn baby!"

His jaw clenched – the last woman on earth he wanted responsible for the life of a child was Rebecca, but he wasn't relieved. Relieved would mean he didn't care, didn't understand – and if he were a different man, he might think it didn't matter, except he knew exactly what pregnancy could lead to, and no matter how much he feared experiencing that kind of attachment again, the idea of it ripped away was terrible.

"You're relieved?" he asked, his voice quieter; cool. "That's it, Becca?"

Her lips moved soundlessly.

"I don't know what you want to hear, Jethro!" she cried, her eyes filling with tears. She swiped at her cheeks, appalled at herself for the waterworks, and then she held her hands up. "Did you _want_ a baby?" she sounded like she wouldn't believe him, even if he said he did.

She shook her head quickly, choking on her words.

"What the hell was I going to do with a baby?" she demanded of him. "We weren't going to have _that_ marriage – the picket fence, the kids – that was never us. You have kids with people you love. You don't love me. I've always known that."

He looked at her, silent as the grave.

"You don't take care of yourself," he growled, ignoring her other statement – why would she have married him, if she knew, really knew, that he couldn't love her?

She made a little noise of outrage, despair, and she sat down again.

"I didn't do it, Jay!" she yelped. "I didn't kill anything; I didn't try to get rid of it!"

He flinched, and she shook her head, tearing her nails through her hair.

"I quit drinking. I quit and then – it shocked my system – "

"You don't have to quit for good, then," he lashed out callously. "You can go right back to it."

"I didn't know this was going to happen! I thought you were supposed to stop," she looked up at him. "Doesn't that mean anything? I did the right thing – "

"This wouldn't have happened if you weren't an addict in the first place," he growled dangerously.

"No," she hissed, "I guess I would have had a baby that neither of us planned for and then we'd share custody on weekends because that's what babies to do rocky marriages."

He glared at her, and she reached out and pushed at his hip, pushing at him to release some of her anger.

"Why are you acting like _you_ lost something?" she demanded hoarsely. "You didn't even know." She snapped her fingers. "It's nothing – it's – move on. I'll be careful."

Her hands went around her middle, and she leaned forward, curling into herself. She closed her eyes and held them shut lightly, trying to contain tears, but she started to cry anyway. He stared at her, transfixed; Rebecca never cried, not unless she was angry, or unexpectedly hurt.

She sat there crying, pushing her hair back, keeping her eyes low, and then finally she looked up.

"You're staring at me," she hissed edgily. She looked like she was going to say something else, and then she faltered. She pointed to her chest. "I don't feel good about myself," she admitted in a loud voice. "Is that what you want to hear? I'm," she paused, fluttering her lashes tensely, "I may be – relieved – but that doesn't mean I don't feel pain – "

"You don't."

"What?" she snapped bitterly.

His eyes narrowed, and he turned away, storming towards the kitchen. He turned back, facing her with a black expression.

"You don't understand what you did."

"What I did?" she shrieked. "_Fuck_ you!" she shouted, tears spilling down her cheeks. "I swear to God, Jethro, I was trying to figure out how to deal with it – I did quit drinking – "

"But you're glad this happened," he shouted over her. "You _wanted_ it!"

"You don't understand what I'm going through – there is something, in my soul, that I didn't know was there – when she told me I lost a baby – !"

"I get it," Gibbs interrupted.

"Why do you think you're the one – "

"I had a daughter, Rebecca!" he bellowed.

The silent shadow that fell across her face struck him hard – the quiet shock in her green eyes, the ashen look to her cheeks, the part of her lips. She looked at him like she'd never seen him before, twitched her head as if she couldn't hear, and he thought she might shatter to pieces right in front of him. She lifted her shoulders in defeat and moved her head, tears welling up in her eyes.

"I didn't know that," she said hoarsely. "You tell me – how am I supposed to understand that, when I didn't know."

She posed the question, and he stared at her, stopped in his own tracks by the violence of his revelation, and unsure where to go from here because he hadn't even planned on telling her.

Rebecca paced the floor. She sat down by the fire, drawing her knees up to her chest, inching closer to the warmth, punishing herself with the cold brick of the hearth. Her body ached all over; she still felt nauseous, sick, tired. She stared at the flames, her chest squeezing tighter and tighter, until she was sobbing.

"That doesn't change how I feel," she managed, her shoulders heaving. "It's – it's _worse_ – you should know that. You should understand _that_," she cried fiercely. "That you think – just because it was there – that a baby should have been involved – in all of this."

She gestured her hand around, and then wiped furiously at her face, gritting her teeth.

"You can look at me with that accusation and that anger all you want, Jay," she said tightly. "It's not going to change anything."

He was crouching next to her suddenly, touching her shoulder.

"Becca," he said. "Tell me you didn't do this on purpose."

She jerked away from him, slapping at his hands.

"How many times do you want to hear it?" she hissed, her throat raw and sore. "I can't promise you withdrawal didn't cause it – but I didn't take anything, I didn't – I didn't," she shook her head, her words overwhelmed.

She leaned towards him, her head falling against his shoulder.

"I didn't do it to spite you," she whimpered.

He let her head rest there, looking down at her, trying to process the menacing feeling in his bones. It was a horrible thing, to be so different from her, to know she was right; that it would have been the worst thing, a baby, but to feel like he'd failed again – he let Rebecca's addictions rule her, he didn't care, he left her alone, and now this – and she was as caught off guard and dragged down as he was, but each of them for reasons they could never bond over.

He felt the anger seeping out of him; he felt himself wracked by built, by a hollow, grey feeling of loss – in a split second, a harrowing stab of memory from years ago, he remembered standing in this house for the first time after he'd lost them, staring at toys on the floor, a cardigan near the couch, and he bent his head towards Rebecca, his eyes pressed into her soft hair.

He was fighting a losing battle with demons he couldn't see – he didn't want to do this anymore. He wondered if he could fix the way things were; get better, like his first ex-wife had screamed at him to do.

He touched Rebecca's cheek gently.

"Don't drink anymore," he said hoarsely.

She was tense; her muscles felt breakable, but stone-like.

"I don't have a problem," her words were icy, forced through clenched teeth.

"You're halfway there, Becca," he said, his voice hoarse – pleading. She'd taken a few crucial steps. "You wouldn't get sick if it wasn't a problem," he growled.

"I wouldn't have killed your kid," she translated bitterly, reading her own interpretation into his words.

But it wasn't all that; he wasn't trying to say that. He had this wild idea that he could make things work with Rebecca, if he stopped watching her spiral down – he might see a way to build himself back up.

She took a heavy breath and started coughing, turning her face away. She stopped, and then tried a deep breath again.

"What happened to your daughter?" she asked weakly.

He swallowed the daggers in his throat.

"She was murdered."

Rebecca shook her head. She didn't ask anything else. He didn't know if he would have been able to tell her. He wondered if she thought he meant Diane had lost a child, too, and he almost told her about Shannon just because he couldn't bear the thought of Kelly belonging to someone else, even in thought.

He sat next to her for a long time, and then he got up. He went and filled a glass with ice water, and returned, taking her elbow and helping her up. He led her to the couch, and waited for her to sit down, taking a seat next to her. He couldn't bring himself to apologize; part of him was still so angry that this had happened, that he'd had a part in letting it happen – that the whole ordeal had him conflicted about what he wanted, and what he needed, for the rest of his life.

She took a long drink and turned to him, her head heavy on the pillows of the couch.

"You know what the worst part of this is?" she asked hoarsely.

He leaned back and looked at her, unable to even guess.

She swallowed, and he watched her lips tremble as she hesitated.

"Your eyes," she said softly. She licked her lips. "From the moment you thought I was pregnant, to the moment I wasn't anymore – that was the only time you've looked at me like I mattered to you more than anything in the world."

She looked at him for an eternity, her gaze unwavering, and then she looked away, biting down on her glass.

"I convinced you I didn't care about that stuff," she whispered, almost to herself. She let her eyes fall closed. "And I didn't think I did," she said. She shrugged. "Then I fell in love with you."

She pressed the cup to her forehead, and held her eyes closed very tightly.

He rested there next to her, his throat itching. He lifted his arm slowly and wrapped it around her, pulling her close. She folded into him effortlessly, resting her head against his chest.

He let his lips linger near her temple, and he took a deep breath – he resolved himself: maybe, if he could keep her off the alcohol now, he could fix-her up; maybe he'd figure out what he was doing wrong in his own soul.

* * *

_god i always finish writing this stuff and think jesus - Gibbs is such a piece of work. i mean rebecca is too, but i wrote that. the WRITERS made Gibbs a piece of work._

_feedback appreciated!_

_-alexandra_


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